


Run Boy, Run Boy, Run For Your Life

by JustFolieADeuxIt



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, band fic - Fandom
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse, Drug Use, Eating Disorder, Fighting, Fluff, M/M, Toxic Relationship, hurt /comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-05
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-08-19 16:35:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8217199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustFolieADeuxIt/pseuds/JustFolieADeuxIt
Summary: You don't know fear until the one you love leaves you bleedingOnce.. Twice.. How many times?How long do you let yourself be a victim?





	

Fear. Do you know what real fear actually feels like? To me, there's two different kinds of fear. There's the kind where you just endure a slight startle for 5-10 seconds, then laugh it off and carry on with your day. But real fear is different. Your skin feels clammy, cold and sweaty. Your pulse races and you feel dizzy. You can literally feel your heart thudding painfully behind your ribcage. Like a bull trying to charge out of its pen. You can barely breathe, it comes in short shaky gasps. Fear isn't fun and I live in it constantly.

It wasn't always like this. I didn't use to jump at the touch of someone's hand, or feel panicked when someone raised their voice.. But now it's different. Being afraid is constantly looming. It's out of my control now and it's taking over my life. But unfortunately there's an emotion that's stronger than fear.

That emotion is love.

\----  
Joe POV  
\----

The alarm is going off and I know what time it is. It's the same time it always is when the alarm goes off because I always set it for 6:30. It's also Sunday, which means the guys and I will be in a studio in 4 hours or so. My pulse thuds slightly at the thought of what's to come. Today could be a good day or a bad day. The two of us won't be alone, so maybe it won't be so bad.

The two of us. Pete and I. Me and Pete. I really don't know what I was thinking when I asked him out. I'm no match for him and his issues. The emotional issues, the alcohol addiction, the drug problems.. His unstable behavior because of the drugs. The mood swings come at random and I pay the price. But he tells me he loves me.. So it's okay. I always forgive him and everything is fine.

I sit up in the bed and I feel it. An ache. It's in my ribs, the bruising has started and it hurts to breathe in. I slowly place a hand over my chest and force the air out. That hurts too. He'd said it was an accident. Who accidentally throws a chair at someone?

I get out of bed and make my way into the bathroom, take my shirt off and look at my chest, at the half-done tattoo that scrawls along just below my collar bone and reaches from one side to the other. I'll get it finished eventually. My chest is bruised, more on the right side than the left. There's a small cut too where the wood of the chair had splintered and snagged me through my shirt.

I don't know how long I'd been staring at the purple and blue mess but a ringing snapped me out of it and I went back into the bedroom and grabbed my phone. It was Patrick. A text message.

"Studio at 10. What happened the other night? You never called me."

I think about it. How could I tell him? No one else knows. No one understands how bad it is. Pete's good at lying and so am I. Pretending and lying are nearly the same thing. I prefer to call it pretending though. It doesn't sound as bad that way.

I settle for a quick reply.

"Sorry. Fell asleep. I had a headache."

It's a lie.. But Patrick won't know. I feel bad lying to him. He's always looking out for me. He looks out for all of us. His relationship is better than mine and Pete's. Patrick and Andy have a fairytale romance and I'm jealous and bitter and sometimes I'm almost angry. But not quite. I'm not good at being angry. That's Pete's job and I hope I never get caught acting the way he does.

I was always warned about this. Abuse. I knew the warning signs, knew what to avoid in men and women. Not just with relationships either, but with anyone I was around. Friends, family, people in the music industry. People can be toxic. But with Pete it's different, because he loves me.

I shower and dress and have something to eat. I watch TV with my dog. He doesn't give a shit but he sits with me and watches too. I like hours like these when Pete's not here. He lives with me, but he's rarely actually here in the apartment. Maybe it's better that way. Am I complete dick for not wanting my own boyfriend to be around all the time?

At 9:30, I leave and head to the studio. My pulse is back to thudding again as I see Pete's car in the parking lot. I almost feel sick. Love shouldn't make you feel sick. Or maybe I just need to grow some balls.

I walk into the lobby, then take the stairs to the second floor and enter a smaller room. Andy and Patrick are on a couch. Patrick has a notebook out and is scribbling in it. Andy's watching him closely and pressing kisses to his neck. I advert my glance to the other side of the room where Pete is in a chair, on his phone, acting like none of this matters. If he's high, nothing matters at the moment to him. He notices I'm there and I feel sick again.

"Hey." He says.

His tone is flat. He's either angry or high. It'll be better if he's high. At least, if it's weed. He'll be more relaxed.

I move forward and sit on the chair beside his.

"Hey." I reply, then force a smile.

There. Not so bad. He smiles back and then takes off his hoodie and hands it to me.

"Aren't you cold? Why didn't you bring a jacket. Wear that, I'm hot anyway." He tells me as he pulls it over my head.

I shove my arms through the sleeves and I can smell him on the hoodie. A mix of cologne and aftershave. Good. He's groomed himself today so maybe he's not high. His mood is level and he's being thoughtful. He loves me. I feel better.

I smile at him. "Thanks. Forgot mine." I tell him. He shakes his head but it's playful and he laughs.

The rest of the time in the studio goes well. We finish up one of the songs we'd been working on for awhile and we have a rough mix of it. It just needs to be cleaned up and then it can go on the album.

By the time we're done, my chest is hurting more from the bruising and I want to go home and nap. Pete mentions something about how he'll be home later and I nod. Suddenly the pain I felt is now masked by anxiety.

When I get home, I take the dog for a quick walk and then head for the bed. As soon as I lay down, I'm asleep. 4 hours goes by and I'm startled awake by a slam. The door. Pete's here and he's not in a good mood anymore.

I can hear his footsteps coming towards the bedroom and I sit up, waiting. He walks in and I can smell the alcohol instantly. He was out drinking? It's not unusual. Never too early for Pete to go on a drinking binge. In fact, the earlier the better.

"Why didn't you answer my text?" He asks firmly.

"What text?" I asked, reaching for my phone.

He's near me in a second, snatching the phone out of my hands and throwing it across the room. It hits the wall and I suppose the screen is cracked.

"The one I sent hours ago!"

He's yelling now and the words are a blur. My heart is beating too hard and it makes me feel slightly deaf. I stand up and wonder if I can make it out of the apartment before his rage reaches new heights.

He grabs my arm, my right arm and pulls me towards him. I feel his breath on my neck. He stares at me firmly and he's yelling again but I still don't make out a word he's saying. I'm all too sure that it's curse words and insults and accusations of not loving him.

He then snaps and my back hits the wall hard. I wince and try to push him away.

"Stop. You're drunk."

My voice is quiet, scared. I silently curse at myself for being such a pussy.

"Why don't you love me, Joe? Why do you do this? Why do you make it so fucking hard?"

He hits me. Once, twice, I stop counting after the fourth hit. My stomach aches and I taste blood. He hasn't been this bad in months. It's usually a punch or something being thrown at me. But a full on attack like this, it's rare.

The room is spinning and I feel myself hit the ground heavily. It really hurts to breathe now and I can't move. I pray silently to God for help. He must hear me because Pete leaves and the door slams again.

My phone rings. It's a miracle Pete didn't completely destroy it when he threw it. I reach out a hand and am able to grab it from where I am. It's Patrick again. Another text, asking if I want to hang out later.

I just tell him I need help. I tell him to come over as soon as he can. I know he's feeling fear now and I feel guilty. I hate making him and Andy worry. I never talk about this. They don't know. But enough is enough. It's been nearly a whole year and I can't take it anymore.

I close my eyes and stay on the floor, curled up in somewhat of a ball, trying to keep my breathing even.

Patrick arrives within what seems like 10 minutes and lets himself in with the spare key I gave him.

I'm wavering in and out of consciousness but I hear him when he finds me.

".. Joe.."

My stomach sinks. He's crying. I can hear it in his voice. The way it shakes and cracks. He kneels down in front of me and his hands are on my sides, moving me gently so I'm sitting up leaning back against the wall.

I look at him, blinking away the fuzzy dots that dance in front of my vision.

"Pete.." I start.

What do I say? If I tell him, things will go to hell. What am I saying? Things are already hell. Fuck it.

"Pete hurts me.." I whisper.

Patrick blinks, his face confused like he can't understand what I'm saying. He doesn't want to believe it. He then just nods and frowns. He then stands up and he's packing some of my things. Clothes, tooth brush, laptop, important stuff. He gets my dog on his leash and then he comes back over to me and helps me up.

I fall asleep in his car and it's okay, I assure him. Pete didn't hit me in the head. I don't have a concussion. I just feel like the wind is knocked out of me and my stomach aches like hell.

When we get to Patrick's house, I'm fully awake and suddenly all-too-aware of what happened. I break down. I have a panic attack in the car. I tell Patrick everything. About Pete's hidden addictions and how he touches me and abuses me.

I say the word 'Abuse' and it hits me like a sack of bricks. Pete's been abusing me. I'm his puppet. His rag doll.

I force myself out of the car and throw up on in the gutter. I'm just standing there, vomiting and crying and Patrick is keeping me steady and calling for Andy, who comes hurrying out of the house like a worried mother.

Then everything is a blur again, but suddenly I'm inside and I'm warm. I'm laying on one of the couches with a blanket over me. My dog is curled up by my feet and Patrick is sitting on the floor in front of the couch. He's holding my hand and he looks scared.

".. Joe.. You're awake.." He says softly.

"Yes.." I breathe. I feel calmer.. Safe. I'm safe here. Andy and Patrick won't let Pete near me, especially now that Patrick knows what's been going on. Patrick has obviously told Andy because Andy is sitting across from us on a chair, his hands pressed together. He looks deep in thought and his eyes hold worry and confusion.

"When did this start?" He finally asked. 

I'm silent for a minute, trying to think about when things got turned upside down. When Pete actually started getting so bad that I was scared all the time. When did I actually start feeling terrified whenever he was around me?

"I don't know.. He was already taking a lot of prescription drugs when we first started going out.. But he wasn't violent. He was just moody. You guys know he's moody.. He's Pete." I say, and the words roll off my tongue like fire. I almost feel guilty, but I know I'm right. It's completely true. He's Pete and he's moody.

Patrick gently rubs the top of my hand with his thumb, blinking slowly behind his glasses. I can see his eyes are red. He must have been crying while I was passed out. I know this will be hard on him. Pete's his best friend and always has been. They've been through more than Pete and I have. But it doesn't matter now. We're all screwed. Pete's a gigantic mess and he's dragging us all down. But I'm the one that physically pays for it.

Not anymore.

No more...


End file.
